We Forgotten Heroes
by Malakhim
Summary: Buffy finds herself in a world greatly changed with the possibility of her own world having never existed. But when a familiar face and a changed Angel enter the scene, it seems that a larger conspiracy may be at work… Dark. BuffyAngel.
1. Prologue

**Title: **'We Forgotten Heroes'

**Author: **Malakhim

**Summary: **This is going to be very different from what I have written before, and hopefully very different from what you have read before.

Buffy finds herself in a world greatly changed and has to face the possibility of her own universe having never existed. But when a familiar face and a very different Angel enter the scene, it suddenly seems that a larger conspiracy may be at work...

**Timeline/Pairing: **Buffy Season 2, somewhere between 'Bad Eggs' and 'Innocence' before it takes a major AU track/ Eventually B/A

**Rating: **R for the general Buffy-related stuff, adult situations and graphic violence. This will include references to dark themes, so be warned. Please notice that this piece has been given this rating for a reason, so don't flame me if you're underage.

**Disclaimer: **Here we go again: I own nothing you recognise and make no profit from doing this. It is purely for my own (and hopefully other's) entertainment.

**Distribution: **Just ask and you can have it.

**Reviews:** Always appreciated! Flames bad, praise pretty, and constructive criticism is always welcomed.

And last, but not least, thanks so much to Evsen whose support and motivation became the inspiration behind this story. This is really for you!

'_We Forgotten Heroes'_

Chapter One

He knows there were happier times.

Times when he was not afraid of the darkness and the loneliness that is everything now. Times with light and laughter.

He knows but cannot remember.

Now the darkness swims before his eyes. He can't see, he can't smell, he can't feel; can't feel anything but the blinding pain that is tearing through him, yet he knows he is not dead because he can still hear. And in his ears, in his mind, in his heart, her voice rings loud and shrill, cutting like a knife through the walls of silence that thunders against his skull. She is always there now; sometimes he thinks she is one with the darkness, always with him even when he shuts his eyes. He can no longer remember a time with one without the other.

She screams inside him and he cries out, desperately searching to drown out the anguished sound in her voice. He raises his own voice, screaming until his throat feels raw and strained, but her voice still flies from wall to wall inside his skull, ringing within his mind, and in his desperation, he slams his head forcefully against the brick wall behind him. The pain flares, sudden and sharp, dulling his brain and yet she screams still, loud and clear, the accusation in her voice burning into his brain as though it was a white-hot branding iron.

..._Angel..._

He clenches his eyes shut and slams his palms for his ears, his body sinking into a crouch.

'No...' he sobs. 'No...'

..._why..._

He screams again and hammers his head against the cool wall, never noticing the red trail that runs down his cheek from his brow. With each blow her voice whispers accusingly in his ear.

..._you killed me...you..._

'No!' he screams but his throat tightens and he can only sob the words out. 'I didn't – I didn't know...'

..._betrayer...monster..._

He cradles his ears with his palms, sinking lower and lower until he sits against the wall, pressing his chest against his folded knees. 'Shut up,' he sobs, his voice coming in rushed, shallow gasps. 'Shut up...shut up...'

..._murderer..._she cries.

..._you killed me..._

..._you killed me..._

'I never meant to hurt you! I didn't –'

..._murderer..._

'No!'

In despair, he gathers the last crumbles of his strength and brings the back of his head against the stone behind him. And as darkness swims his vision, her voice slowly ebbs away.


	2. To bear a charmed life

Chapter Two

Her breaths were coming quicker now, falling into affinity with the regular drum of her feet against the tarmac. The bitter night-air brushed against her face and on the bare spot on her neck where her sweatshirt did not cover the exposed skin tingled with the sensation of the breeze's icy touch, and every deep gulp of air felt sharp and piercing as it entered her throat and lungs.

Her body was working fluently, going through the motions like some higher form of living, breathing mechanism. Buffy felt strong, fit, freshened and very much awake – all of which were rather welcome assets when it came to demon slayage. Most people would fix her with an incredulous stare if she was dim enough to let slip her passion for running, but it was this she loved; the freedom, the feeling of strength surging through her.

She crossed the empty street. The cemetery lay quiet and imposing in its solitude, the hissing whisper of wind amongst leaves murmuring eerily between the shadowy outline of the gravestones. A familiar prickling sensation erupted at the back of her neck and she gradually slowed her steps before coming to a halt beside the old wall that girded the quiet graveyard. All of a sudden the night had become layered in its silence; Buffy felt the waves ripple softly against her cheek, her eyes burning from the strain of her run, as she sought to look beyond the veil that shrouded everybody else, kept them from seeing what none should ever see.

her stake brushed comfortingly against her thigh as she bent over to shield her face, resting her palms against her knees as though she was out of breath. She was hardly breathing at all, but as she stood arched forward she felt the muscles down her back tighten, twisting like snakes beneath the skin, and she waited.

Waited for the attack she knew would come; waiting for the tiny mistake that would give her foe away. And it came, the soft rustle of clothing, so quiet that a normal human ear would never have picked it up. But she was not exactly normal.

The world melted into one indistinct blur as she spun on her feet, her body directed partially by her brain but chiefly by instinct, adrenaline that flowed through her veins like fire and the thunder of her own heart in her ears. The Slayer took over and for once Buffy allowed her to.

Until the haze before her eyes shifted and Buffy found herself sitting awkwardly across her assailant's muscular form, her knees pinned firmly against his sides and Mr Pointy hovering a mere inch above his chest. His right hand was wrought tightly around her wrist, his arm shaking from the strain of keeping her from ploughing the weapon into his chest.

Recognition and realization registered simultaneously and Buffy slowly relaxed her shoulders and let out a trembling breath, once again becoming aware of the chilly breeze that washed over her. Angel shot her a calm half-smile from his uncomfortable position between her and the pavement.

'How dare you point pointy sticks at people?'

His hand moved slightly as if to pluck the weapon from her grasp but Buffy stubbornly maintained her hold, smiling a little as she did so.

'What gives you the right to stalk people?' she retorted, tapping him playfully on the chest with the tip of the stake.

Angel sighed, the shift of his body between her legs sending tingles dancing painfully down Buffy's spine. 'Not people,' he corrected, 'You.'

She snorted. 'Suck-up.'

He did not look too perturbed. 'You're not the one about to get stabbed by your girlfriend. Guys will say a lot of silly things in that scenario.'

'I bet.'

He chuckled. Buffy could not help but smile at the sound; laugh was something he rarely did. Shame really, because somehow it always made him seem so much younger. When he smiled, some of the pain, some of the darkness etched into his face seemed to ebb away...she liked him when he smiled.

'Buffy?'

His words pulled her out of her reverie and she blinked sheepishly at him. 'Huh?'

The stake had moved with her as she leant forward and Angel gave it a gentle push so it pointed away from his eye. 'Ah...wanna move?'

'Nah.' Buffy gave a casual flick of her hand and the stake did a dodgy somersault. Angel's eyes widened slightly as it strayed rather close to his face. 'Quite comfortable. You?' she added teasingly, only too aware of his awkward position. Not that she saw that as any reason for moving.

He shot her an odd look, before throwing out an arm and catching her wrist midair. 'Point...that...the other way,' the words came out slightly slurred as he calmly ignored her playful struggles and forcibly plucked the stake from her hand, 'and I'll be fine.'

The light from the single lamppost fell upon the left side of his face, carving the lines of his cheekbone and brow in stark contrasts of pale light and utter black that fell in one with the darkness of his eyes. His skin was cold and smooth as she traced his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. He shifted his head slightly, pressing a light, uncertain kiss to the tip of her finger. Buffy felt him tighten under her as she moved her hand to his jaw, gently turning his face to hers.

Her skin grew hot as his dark eyes searched hers, an odd and yet vaguely familiar expression burning in them. Blood was pumping in her ears as she slowly arched forward, her eyes never leaving Angel who had suddenly grown strangely still, and their lips met hungrily as Angel drew her in like a drowning man does air. A familiar burning sensation erupted inside her and Buffy pushed down on him, with the result of slamming the back of his head somewhat brutally against the tarmac.

'Uh – sorry-'

Angel's hand closed around her arm and pulled her to him once more. 'Don't matter...' He kissed her again, his lips moving from her mouth to the skin beside her jaw and her throat and deep inside her the slayer began to stir, the screaming protests drowned out by whirlwind of emotions and sensations that surged through her body.

And suddenly she only had the time to become dimly aware of someone grabbing her roughly by the back of her neck before the world become one indistinct blur as she was sent soaring through the chill night air. The situation became all too real when she slammed against the tarmac, the collision sending waves of pain and nausea surging through her. Instinct guided her back on her feet before her head had taken any notice of what had just happened; she blinked the blood out of her eyes though her vision remained blurry at best. Underneath the stale light of the streetlamp she saw Angel, back on his feet by now and sparring with a colossal figure whose shape was near impossible to define. Buffy blinked. Short legs and a bulky body met her hazy eyes and in its left hand it swung a heavy club with lethal precision at Angel, whose every attempt at getting nearer or even past his attacker was halted by a thrashing swing of the weapon. He was in game face; his furious growling betraying the animal within but his valiant efforts was dulled somewhat by him being armed with nothing but a stake. He flung himself at the creature with a roar, clearly aiming to bury his weapon in its thigh but the club caught him by the side of the head and Buffy felt her head go light as the stroke sent Angel crashing against the wall that surrounded the cemetery with a force that made the stones crumble to the ground, raining down over his lifeless form as he collapsed at the foot of the wall.

She screamed and ran at the demon, the dizziness and the world's sudden tendency to tip sideways forgotten as scorching rage rose inside of her. Also forgotten was the fact that she was merely five foot three while her assailant stood at half the height of the streetlamp behind him. Angel. He had hurt Angel and that was something she could not forget.

She did not know how close to it she was when she did not see the club swinging towards her. She did not hear Angel's inhuman cry as it struck, nor did she see the streetlamp coming at her before she slammed against it.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Cold.

Cold and hard.

And rough. Cold and hard and rough. She tried to move her hand, her fingers brushing over the coarse surface. _Tarmac._

She felt heavy and hurt and tired, and a strange numbness was fighting with the soreness of her back for possession of her body. She did not want to open her eyes.

Tarmac.

It came back slowly. Flashes. Images. Sounds.

_Angel. Angel was hurt by some big demon guy. _Buffy forced her eyes open. It did not make the greatest difference though, her eyes meeting nothing but pure blackness.

_Maybe I've gone blind. _She shivered involuntarily. _Ugh, not nice thought. _She forced her head to turn despite the sharp pain that flared briefly in her neck before disappearing as swiftly as it had come. The street was dark and very empty. The streetlamp no longer spat its synthetic lighting across the street but stood dark and marred, its formerly rigid form bending strangely where something had struck it. Buffy's eyes travelled upward to find the few remains of broken glass that was the only hint of the lamp that had shone from it not so long before.

There was no sign of either Angel or the demon. The stonewall sagged more than she remembered it to, random stones lay scattered across the street and in places the material had been assaulted with such violence the entire structure had crumbled to the ground.

Buffy pushed herself onto her elbows and darkness swam before her eyes as dizziness washed over her at the motion. As the situation dawned on her, doubt and fear began to rise with it.

There really was no sign of Angel. Buffy blinked. He would never leave her lying comatose in the street that much she felt certain of. She pushed herself to her feet and leant against the lamppost for support as the world sagged beneath her. The creature had sent him crashing into the wall, but Angel had had worse than that. She took a staggering step nearer to the place where she had seen him fall. Angel had been wounded badly before. Another step. He would be alright. She sunk into a crouch beside the wall, her fingers frantically turning stones, tossing them aside. He would be alright. She ran her fingers through the dust and dry mould. Not ash. He would be alright.

Her mouth was dry and she felt faint. Maybe he had chased the creature away. Clutching a handful of dust, Buffy got to her feet stiffly and glanced down the street, which lay darker than before. The nearest streetlamp had died as well and the one beyond that was giving off the odd flash of pale light; the streets were strewn with litter and every house was shrouded in total darkness. With her fingers still closed tight around the dry powder Buffy forced her uncooperative legs into a run, which soon made her head swim, the regular rhythm of her feet against the rough surface striking a drum against the inner side of her skull though it was nowhere near as comforting as it had been only hours before.

She screamed his name as she turned down the street leading to the school, calling him again and again but hearing nothing but her own panic and the distant shrieking of a police siren. He had to be there somewhere. He had to. He could not be gone.

He would be alright. Sobbing with fear and frustration, Buffy slowed to a walk, allowing the full realization of the fact that she could not feel him as she usually could to strike her.

'Angel!' A plastic bag scurried across the street. 'Angel!'

Despite her best attempts, she felt cold. Cold to the very core and completely unable to think clearly, the sight of the club connecting with Angel's face and his body crashing into the wall replaying itself over and over before her eyes. Buffy cradled her head in her hands, shutting her eyes tight in terror and frustration.

Giles. She would go to Giles. He would know what they had faced. He would know where Angel was. She would rescue him and he would be alright.

It was a good plan.

'Buffy?'

She spun on her feet. _Angel._

Only it was not Angel. Or Xander or Giles for that matter but a complete stranger. A young man, clad only in black but for the greyish-green jacket he had slung over his shoulder. A wooden stake and a strange-looking firearm hung from his belt. He was staring at her as though she was a ghost.

'Buffy? – God, it can't be – you can't –' And to her shock and utter bewilderment his eyes darted over her body taking in her appearance, her face, before grabbing her arms with shaking hands as though to prove to himself that she was real. She went rigid as he pulled her into a hug, pushing him away before taking a couple of quick steps away from him.

'Who are you?'

His face contorted with confusion, shock and hurt. 'What – what do you mean?'

Her head was swimming. 'I mean like front name, surname, address of residence and proof of parole?'

His eyes narrowed. 'You don't recognise me.'

'No. Should I?'

He blinked, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before finally finding his voice.

'Buffy – I'm Mark - your Watcher.'


	3. The Fabrics of Reality

Chapter Three : The Fabrics of Reality

* * *

_His eyes narrowed. 'You don't recognise me.'_

'_No. Should I?'_

'_Buffy – I'm Mark - your Watcher.'_

Buffy stared at the man before her, feeling quite certain that of all the explanations she had expected, that was not one of them. 'No, you're not,' she said with conviction. Maybe the council had made a mistake... 'I have a Watcher – Rupert Giles.'

The comment shook him. 'Giles? I – I don't believe I know –'

Darkness was edging itself closer at the edge of her vision and she blinked, trying and failing to clear her head. 'Yeah, well, it's not my fault that one idiot in the Council doesn't know what the other does, and if you don't mind I'm rather in a hurry.' She spun on her feet quite intent upon leaving the conversation to Giles later when Mark grabbed her arm from behind.

'You can't just go dashing out there on your own.' He pulled her around to face him again, and Buffy felt her cheeks grow hot with anger. 'It's a wonder in itself you're still in one piece.'

Something was not right. Waves of nausea were surging through Buffy's brain but her dizzy mind still had the incentive to piece that bit together. She was standing in a windblown street in the middle of the night in a very quiet Sunnydale with a stranger busy telling her she could not be out at night. Either this was all a very bad joke or she had hit her head harder than she thought.

'Look,' she stated angrily, tearing her arm from his grip and feeling her head reel from the motion. She was careful not to let it show. 'I don't know who you are, mister, and frankly I don't really care either. You say you're a Watcher so you must know that I'm a slayer, and right now I have to go and save my boyfriend.' _Angel._ She had to go. She was wasting time. Yet, she had taken no more than two steps away when his voice rang out again.

'It's not real, Buffy.' The melancholic, almost apologetic note to his voice sent shivers down her spine. She paused.

'What?

His tall, slender form stood silhouetted against the faint light from the solitary streetlamp. She could not see his face as he answered, but his frown could almost be heard in his voice. 'I never thought I would have to – and I still wish I didn't –'

Buffy stared at him. 'I don't have time for this,' she snapped. Angel could be dead and it would all have been her fault. Maybe he was hurt and she did not know, being so busy chatting. She shook her head. _Don't think that._

'You must be confused.'

'I'm glad you see things from my perspective.' The sarcasm was intentional, as was the insulting tinge to her voice as she continued. 'Who the hell are you?'

'I already told you.'

'I don't believe you.'

'That's not my problem.' And his hand was on her shoulder, his firm grip turning her around and guiding her down the street. The slayer inside her stirred at the physicality of his action but her head swam too much for her to evoke more than minimum resistance.

'I can't go with you. I have to save Angel,' she explained.

'You will understand,' he just said.

A nagging suspicion rose within her and as heat swelled in her chest she jerked her shoulder free of Mark's hand. 'Did the council send that demon?'

'Which demon?'

'Did the Council send that demon to take Angel out?' Her voice was shaking with restrained fury. In her state of confusion and nausea anything was possible.

Mark gave a short sigh. 'Angel again. Tell me about him sometime, 'kay? Right now we need to get inside and you need to listen to what I can tell you.'

Reluctantly Buffy stepped after him as he turned down a small sidewalk that led to the bland façade of a greying house; every window and door had been boarded with planks of wood, seemingly sealed from within. Her escort turned the key before giving the door a jerk that sent it gliding open with a reprehensive screech. Buffy followed him inside in silence.

'Do you have a telephone or-or something – I – I need to call Giles, or my mom...'

His footsteps crossed the floor and light flooded the room from the fluorescent lamp that flickered to grainy life above her head. He didn't answer but left the room the same way they had arrived, leaving Buffy feeling very isolated and very forlorn in her strange environment. The room was rectangular, every wall painted to a sickening white, every wall bare. There were only two doors; the one leading to it from the corridor and one opposite through which she could see what appeared to be a little-used study. The floor space had been used in moderation with only a plain wooden table whose legs had been sawed off halfway standing flanked by a couple of old and visibly worn couches.

Buffy hated it. She hated the sterile walls, the absence of windows or any kind of decorations, any emotion. Anybody could have lived here, she mused. Anybody. Her feet left trails in the layer of dust which covered the rough, wooden floor as she walked to the nearest couch, allowing her exhausted body to sink back against the spring-sprouting surface. She felt as though she had a clock in her stomach, every second that passed ticking through her, feeling the movement of the hands rocking through her body. _An-gel,_ they chanted, _An-gel_.

She was sick with worry and indecision. And yet there was something else, a gut-feeling, a sixth sense, something told her she had to stay. To wait. To listen. That something was going to happen.

So she sat and waited, desperately fighting the urge to dash back to the streets and resume her search for Angel. Guilt and doubt were beginning to rise in her bewildered mind and she felt torn, one thought battling the other as they formed.

A glass materialised before her eyes and she started. Mark extended his arm further and Buffy reluctantly accepted the gesture, her gaze rising defiantly as she grabbed hold of the glass. The material was cool and smooth against her skin and her mind cleared slightly.

'Wha-' she began but his raised palm made her fall silent. Her eyes followed him as he took a seat opposite her, yet her attention shifted from his face to the bundle of greying papers he held in his hand as they were slammed onto the table in front of her. It was a newspaper.

The front page was adorned by a large, black and white photograph, which was so blurry she could hardly make out the basic human shapes among the sea of bodies, angry faces. Her eyes travelled upward and found the date printed in the top right corner. Her heart froze and for a moment her chest tightened to the point where she felt certain she would never breathe again.

It was not possible. And yet the numbers were still there when she opened her eyes again – _3rd February 2068 – _and the paper did not crumble under her fingers as she ran a trembling hand over it. _3rd February 2068. _

The room spun and her eyes clouded over, the world disappearing and her body disappearing from the world. Only her heart was racing so hard in her ears she thought her ear drums would burst.

Firm hands on her shoulders steadied her and pulled her back into a sitting position; Mark's voice sounded slurred to her shock-dulled brain:

'Oopsie-daisy.' Buffy blinked and felt the dead weight that had suddenly fastened itself to her chest lighten slightly. Her mouth was dry.

'What's going on?' she managed, hardly recognising the sound of her own voice. She felt cold.

Apparently Mark noticed, passing her a woollen rug that had rested across the back of his couch. 'Will you listen to me without interrupting this time?'

Buffy lowered her eyes and nodded timidly.

'Good. Five months ago,' he began, 'you were a slayer under my employ, and you had been so for well near five weeks. You were the best, a true gem in the Council's crown of slayers. The Watcher's Council,' he explained upon catching her eyes. 'God, they loved you. Things were going well, smoother than they had done for decades – the political aspects of the uprising were finally beginning to dim down, and we were beginning to feel well acquainted with the Tagged situation. But then reports starting coming in – small at first – unrelated incidents such as burn-downs, back-alley attacks...just insignificant occurrences, or so we thought. They soon got bigger. Too late we realized that we were loosing authority over the Pets in the City. The Council issued an uncensored destruction order for the entire stock within the borders, starting with their own, yet almost immediately private households began to rebel against the clause and as a result, the slayers were sent out -'

"Slayers'...?'

'Of course, you wouldn't remember...the Watcher's Council found a way to increase your numbers, I'll tell you later. Well, slayer action became necessary and you were sent out with your own squad team. I had faith that you would handle the situation, you had proved capable many a time beforehand – yet none of you returned. The Council did everything in their power to learn what had become of you, I myself went searching for you, but you remained lost. No money, no bribery, no military or political action it seemed could lead us to the smallest hint.

'After three months you were officially declared dead. I was not given another Watcher assignment, having failed the Council's trust so atrociously with you. Yet, this evening I received an anonymous call, which suggested that I might find something very interesting by the southern cemetery. It was not an understatement.'

Buffy sat unmoving with hers hand clasped tight around her glass, too many questions chasing themselves through her mind for her to focus on what she had just been told. The implications of him telling her the truth had only just began to dawn on her.

'But then – my mom – how -'

The couch groaned as Mark shifted his weight. 'I am afraid I cannot give you an infallible explanation for what has happened to you -'

'But you knew!' Buffy's eyes darted to his face. 'You knew – you said it wasn't real – how-how did you know that?'

'I only have theories,' he replied dismissively. 'I know nothing for certain.'

Buffy clutched the rug tighter around her shoulders. 'Tell me.'

'I assume you were caught by a mob of rogue Pets, and have been under the influence of certain drugs the last couple of months. These drugs should serve to build an alternative reality, a dream world so to say, but just as real to the victim as reality. Their incentive in drugging you, though, remains unclear.'

Buffy had never been one to faint at the first the best situation, yet she would not have been the least surprised if her mind had decided to shut down in that moment. Of course it didn't. _He was really being real,_ she thought in distress, _he is not lying. He is not just making this up._

'Then – my mom, Willow – Xander – Giles -'

'They never existed.'

She stared at him in desperation, willing him to smile and laugh and say it was all some tasteless joke of Xander's. He didn't. 'They did – I know they did!'

'No.'

'And Cordelia, the pizza-guy,' her body convulsed painfully, the words escaping her in a gasping whisper. 'Oh God, Angel. Angel and I, we -'

'It never happened. None of it is real.'

A strange urgency seized her and Buffy was on her feet before she knew what she intended to do. Darting out of the room, down the small corridor to the front door she jerked it open and scurried into the street. It was dark and empty, too dark, too empty to be real. And yet it was, strange, unfamiliar buildings rising higher and higher above her head, uncivilized giants in a surrealistic reality. She knew none of them.

It was too much. Her knees buckled and her body was trembling when she could no longer stop the terrified sobs that threatened to choke her. 'It has to be – it has to be -'

'This is real. This is your world.'

'But I don't even know it!' she screamed, waving her hand at the looming monster of a building that gloated silently at her from across the street. 'I remember nothing of this. Nothing! I don't remember you!'

Mark looked at her and continued to do so for a long time. 'You need to rest,' he finally said. 'Then tomorrow we will go to the Council. They will decide what to do.'

Buffy wanted to scream at him that she did not care what the Council wanted with her, that she did not care for his world but she couldn't. Rather than giving in to the angst-fuelled rage she turned mute, feeling the tears run silently down her cheek.

It seemed that it was now her world as well.

Her mom, smiles and curly hair. Her dad, ice shows and candyfloss. Willow, Xander - Giles with his endless research parties. All those memories – were they really nothing more? Buffy turned on the couch, feeling the rug slip off her but she didn't care. It didn't matter anymore. And Angel – he had been real, just like the others. He was not just a supporting player in some fantastic unreal reality of hers. He wasn't. He was real. Somehow he was real and somehow she was not alone in a strange, lonely world that scared her so much.

The sound of footsteps finally died and the house was dark, silent and threatening in its alien hostility. Buffy curled into herself, shielding her eyes from the glaring walls and the world outside the woollen rug and cried.

* * *

A/N: Great to hear from some familiar faces (you know what I mean)! Thanks so much Wesfan1234 for coming back, that in itself is the best encouragement:-) the same goes for nimwen, AngelicDreams and legolasgal. Thanks to you too.

And, of course, thanks to Goddessa39 – bear with me for a couple of chapters. I am always slow to get the story rolling ;-) and arianamissy – hope you will like and thanks so much for reviewing!

Just to let you know, I will not be posting an author's notice after every single chapter, mostly because I want the right mood to be dominant throughout, not cut apart by my endless ramblings. But please, do still review – it is not because I won't notice them!

(which is kinda my way of saying 'please review'...:-)


	4. The Honourable Council of the Watchers

Chapter 3: The Honourable Council of the Watchers

The band is more subdued tonight, the notes floating through the room one joining the other with muffled ease. Buffy likes it better like that, having the music at the back of her mind, her attention free to roam over Angel. It is strange though; they seem to be the only people in the Bronze tonight. Even the band has gone but the music keeps coming. It is nice, just her and Angel. Their bodies sway slowly with the rhythm of the monotonous tones and she runs a hand down the curve of his lower back. He returns her smile.

'We don't have a lot of time,' he whispers.

'I do,' she tells him, tilting her playfully. 'I have all night.'

His hand closes around hers and he leads her to a window that has not been there before. The music is still playing.

'It is very dark outside,' Angel observes and she nods. It is. 'Can you find your way home?' He looks worried.

She does not want to go home. 'We have more time.'

'It is late. You should not be here.' He sounds anxious. 'You will have to run.' He touches her face gently; his fingertips cool against her cheek. 'Can you do that?'

'I don't want to run.' She doesn't. Her back hurts and she is too tired to run. 'I want to stay here with you.'

He looks sad. 'You can't.'

'Run with me!' She grabs his arm, trying to drag him with her but he doesn't move.

'No, Buffy!' He is frightened now. So is she because she does not understand. She tries to pull at him but her hand passes through his chest; he is disappearing, fading into the night. She screams. 'No! Angel, don't go! Don't leave me here – I don't know what to do!'

A sad smile. 'You will.'

But she does not know what to do and she is afraid. 'Angel – _please_ – I don't want to be alone.'

Then he is gone and only his voice comes through the darkness.

'You will be.'

Buffy startled awake. Her bed was strangely hard and her back was sore. She lay still, gazing at the back of her eyelids. It did not smell like her bedroom.

She forced her eyes to flutter open and white surfaces leered down at her, forcing the realization upon her. It had not been a dream. She had not woken up to find it all a horrible nightmare but rather a horrible reality. A reality she wanted nothing to do with.

Her body jerked into a sitting position. The wool of the rug was rough against the sensitive skin on her palms as her fingers dug into the coarse material. There was the couch, the table, the white walls, all as they had been the night before. Suddenly her former life felt like it was truly slipping from her grasp and for the first time she began to doubt her own certainty. Maybe he was telling the truth. But what then? If her mom, Giles, Willow, Xander, Angel...everybody only existed in her head, how was she to live in a world where she would forever be a stranger? Her eyes burned and her stomach twisted against the pain, leaving her glad she had not eaten for days. However, dry heaving did not make her feel any better, and for a short moment even the thought of Principal Snyder having never existed seemed sad.

Yet, the dream; she remembered everything of it, but understood very little. Angel had been warning her, that much was obvious and his point of her being alone – pretty much spot on. It was eerie, unsettling, not knowing whether to believe in dreams or rationality.

Her eyes brushed over the newspaper's still, ominous form and she picked it up. The photograph was still little more than a confusing muddle of blacks and greys and the date burned the side of her eyes as she determinedly looked past it to the headline:

_Head of Watchers to report on 'Pet' situation at forthcoming summit_

So the Watchers Council was not as anonymous in this reality. The paper hissed under her fingers as she turned the page. Scanning the articles she was stunned to find that every single one referred to demonic activity, if not directly reporting on some aspect of it. It seemed that the Council was neither ambiguous nor merely a small society but rather a large political corporation, controlling many if not the direct majority of activities within the 'City'. Names or place locations were rarely mentioned, only the cryptic address of 'The City' resurfacing again and again.

That was something she would have to ask Mark about.

She could hear his voice coming from the study next to the living room but the door was closed and she could not make out the words. Swinging her legs off the edge of the couch she got to her feet, feeling the floor swim briefly underneath her.

Glancing down her front Buffy was struck by the tackiness of her appearance. Her blue sweatpants and pink top seemed too colourful in the bland surroundings of the room, and whether she decided to believe her head or Mark's, the fact was that the clothes had not been treated kindly of late and it showed. She would have to talk him into buying another outfit before she was to be paraded before the Council. The floor screeched and Buffy jumped.

''morning.' Mark stepped into the room. 'Any better?'

_Yes,_ Buffy felt like saying, _there's nothing like a nap on a couch of stone to make you accept that your world never was. _She nodded. The daylight spilled into the room as he pulled a pair of ragged curtains aside and Buffy looked at him for the first time. He was slim and tall, his brown hair speckled with grey and as he turned she could see the lines wrought by stress and hardship etched into his face. And yet his eyes shone with a youth and enthusiasm she could not hear in his voice. He was hardly older than thirty-five.

'We are going to the Council - have to be there at 11,' he was saying, 'They have some trouble with a rogue Pet that needs sorting out but I guaranteed we wouldn't be long.' His eyes travelled from her face down and up again. 'And we need to find you some clothing first.'

Buffy couldn't agree more.

* * *

'So, what's the sitch?'

Mark closed the door after them. 'What do you mean?'

'Where am I? In the World, you know...'

He sighed heavily. 'You are in the city commonly referred to as Metropolis or simply The Last City. We are on the West Coast, not far from the Hellmouth -'

'UH! – Sunnydale!'

He shot her an odd look. 'Pardon?'

'Sunnydale was on the Hellmouth – I lived there – or rather I thought I...' her throat tightened painfully. 'Go on.'

'Thank you. The Hellmouth opened and the humans who survived took refuge in cities of which this is the largest. We have a population of around forty-five million, not counting the Pets who would probably push us nearer the sixty mark. After that the Council stepped forward and took charge. There was just not a whole lot a president could do in this scenario.'

'So you guys kinda control everything now. Wow.' She whistled through her teeth as something occurred to her. 'And Giles always said it was bad enough you had so much power in the supernatural world.'

Irritation flashed across Mark's face and he did not answer.

The street looked different in daylight. Given, it was deserted as it had been at night but at least she could make out the boxed shapes of hastily assembled accommodations, all of which seemed to have been constructed in an awful hurry. White block followed white block of windowless, gardenless structure, none of them showing any sign of life. There was no sidewalk but only a single streak of roughly laid tarmac.

It was all so strange, so alien from her world.

Then the street bended and widened and the surroundings changed again. There were people scurrying to and fro, small shops at either side of the narrow road and the buildings looked older, more familiar; more real.

Buffy glanced down herself as they walked, self-consciously straightening a fold in the red tank-top that had replaced the pink horror; the sweat pants were gone too, exchanged for a pair of ordinary black jeans. The shop keeper had been oddly thrilled at the prospect of requiring a pair of ugly, worn trousers, the words tumbling over each other as they left his mouth in a state of exaltation. It had done nothing to dull her uneasiness.

'This -' she had to swallow. 'This whole Second-World-War-and-espresso-machine-only-existed-in-your-head thing has happened before?'

'Yes.' Mark kept walking.

'To other Slayers?'

A moment passed before he answered. 'Yes.'

She frowned in confusion. 'Who – who would do that?'

'The Council has its enemies,' he replied dismissively.

'I bet!' she exclaimed, rather too briskly.

They rounded a corner and Buffy abruptly fell silent to stare at the magnificent white building that rose before her. Mark paused. 'Please do refrain from making such rash remarks when you face the Councillors.'

Buffy's eyes swept over the marble stones of the steps that led to the heavy wooden front door. It had probably once been a church but so much had been added since then it now rose in its pompous, elevated arrogance high above the other buildings, like a king with its watchful eye ever scrutinising its underlings. She narrowed her eyes. 'On it.'

* * *

There was marble on the floors and candelabra on the walls. The many-layered ceiling arched upwards, the echo of their footsteps through the empty hall lingering between the arcs of stone that supported the roof.

It was like nothing Buffy had seen of this world.

She followed Mark in silence as he strode through the overwhelming hall whose stone walls were separated by well near fifty metres of marble floor. Church-like windows lined the area where the walls met the sloping roof, allowing only the tiniest amount of daylight to enter.

At the far end of the hall was a single door, unguarded and unbolted. Buffy followed Mark through, perplexed and intrigued. The corridor they had entered was long and narrow, the panels were made of light-brown timber and the floor was covered by thick brown carpets that swallowed the sound of her footsteps. The only light came from the occasional torch burning from the walls in between the closed doors on either side of the passage.

After three more corridors like the first Mark finally paused before a large oak door, whose face was ornamented by broad slivers of black metal that wound their way down the textured surface in delicate patterns and intricate designs.

He knocked once and a low grumble sounded from within. Mark gave her a quick glance before pushing the door open, a voice immediately rising in greeting from within.

'Ah. Miss Summers. So very obliged to have you back.'

It was a court-room. Rows upon rows of wooden benches covered the ground to the far end where marble steps led to the podium upon which the Councillors, twelve of them, were seated in rows behind a long, narrow table. Every single one was clad in the same brown gown Mark had donned for the occasion. The long, narrow window that spanned out behind them were covered in painted glass, the faint light it admitted into the room silhouetting the figures seated at the table.

The voice belonged to a small, stout man, his portly face expressionless as he got to his feet in greeting. Buffy felt a nudge at her back as Mark pushed her through the doors and she forced her legs into a walk.

The speaker stood unmoving as he watched her approach. Buffy felt a familiar tingle running down her spine and she paused twenty metres before the podium, quite intent upon moving no closer.

Silence, then:

'Take a seat, please.'

She did, but rather than taking a place in the chair directly before the committee as his gesture had indicated she took off to the left, falling onto one of the wooden benches. Whispering erupted towards the right of the table. The speaker glared. The whispering stopped.

Retaking his seat, he turned his face to Buffy.

'Miss Summers. Very pleased to see you well. You – are well, I assume?' There was a haughty quality to his speech that sent shivers down her spine. 'Mr Keat's impudence does not extend so far as to him performing the same blunder twice, so the Council has deemed it unnecessary to transfer you to another Watcher. Though it has been understood that your absence has been – significant - the Council will expect you back on duty by tomorrow at five. Until then Mr Keat will enlighten you on the current state of affairs with the Pets.'

Silence fell.

Buffy wondered whether she was supposed to leave. The Councillors were staring strangely at her, something she found immensely aggravating. She was the one not remembering any of them, not vice versa.

The speaker shifted in his seat in irritation. 'You can leave.'

'Thanks,' she retorted sarcastically, striding down the aisle without looking back.

* * *

Mark stood waiting for her as she stepped into the corridor, carefully closing the door after her.

'Who's the small, fat guy?' she asked matter-of-factly.

"The small, fat guy' is the Archdeacon of the city, second only to the Head of the Watcher's Council,' he stated irritably, 'and you would do well to speak of him with the same respect as you used to do.'

She fixed him with a withering glare. 'Sorry but no thank you. See since then, I have been a trip to Denial Land and automaton Buffy has returned all new and improved but undeniably less dutiful towards ridiculous authority figures.'

He seethed with anger. Buffy did not care. Actually, she found it rather amusing. The experience with the Council bothered her, their manner and pretending of her having never been away making her uneasy. The more she saw of this world, the less she wanted to be a part of it and she vented her frustration any way she could.

And annoying the heck out of new Watcher seemed a good place to start.

She started down the corridor, waiting for him to come chasing after her. After three steps, he did. 'Did you speak to him like that in there?'

'No,' she admitted sadly. 'He talked way too much for that. So,' she changed the subject. 'What are 'Pets'?'

She could see he was aware of her deliberate change of conversation though he seemed relieved of it. 'Ah, yes, I suppose now might be as good a time as any for that. Truth be told I had completely forgotten about it -'

'No!' she exclaimed with mock astonishment.

'- seeing how used I have become to the situation. Of course, you wouldn't remember -'

'Could you stop saying that? It makes me feel like Guy Pearce!'

For a second he looked almost as lost as Giles had done when she said things like that. 'G-Guy Pearce...?'

'Oops, forgot, my mind again. You were saying?'

'Are you listening?'

'I'm all ears.'

He shot her a look that told her he seriously doubted that. 'I assume you do remember vampires? Don't answer that,' he added quickly. 'Well, since the Hellmouth opened we have had a whole lot of them –'

'You don't say,' Buffy murmured. He ignored her.

'- and I guess you could say we have indulged in warfare. Pretty much open too. People came to the cities for protection and the Council was eager to provide it.' He was leading the way now and Buffy fell into stride beside him. 'There were a couple of decades of unrest, widespread bloodshed, horror, panic – but it changed. Slowly at first, but with the Council's discovery of how to trigger the calling of more than one Slayer and the development of the Subjugates we soon managed to have the situation in the urban areas more or less under control. Yet, money were few and a suitable workforce even smaller. That's when the Wiccas really started to come into the picture. See, the Council found a more effective way to battle the demon epidemic than with external force – with themselves. As you know, a vampire does not have a soul yet it can be restored-'

Buffy bit hard down on her lip and continued walking.

'- by a Wicca of considerable power. Now, it was not particularly stressing for the Council to round up the Practisers within the borders, and by giving a demon a conscience it becomes perfectly liable as a community worker.'

Not knowing whether to be disgusted, shocked or bemused, Buffy wondered whether she would be capable of feeling any kind of surprise after twenty-four hours in her new world.

'A cheap work force that allowed the Council to spend its finances for greater effect. At first the scheme was heavily criticised, and rightly so. But it was successful and the popularity of the Pets soared – you can find them in most households now – despite the occasional brush up.' They turned a corner and Mark pushed the heavy wooden doors that met them apart and marched into a room whose vastness struck Buffy with such physical force she froze in her tracks. The far end was lost as rows upon rows of bookshelves, every single one reaching from the marble floor to the arching ceiling, met her eyes. There were no windows in the book-covered walls; the only light illuminating the gloomy room came from the oil lamps that burned from the small tables standing scattered among the shelves.

It was empty and Mark's voice echoed between the rows of bookshelves as he went on.

'But then things became complicated. Certain people began to demand rights for the Pets, laws on their treatment - the Council refused of course.' He had taken a seat at the nearest table. Buffy remained standing.

'Why? If the vampires had a soul shouldn't they be treated as humans?'

Mark stared at her as though she had slapped him. 'No. No, no, no, no – that wouldn't work. A vampire is an animal, regardless of what shares its shell.'

'And yet you were still willing to release them on the population once they had their soul,' Buffy pointed out.

'True,' he nodded. 'But it is important that the Pets have their place in society. We are still fighting a war and we cannot let ourselves be distracted by such petty issues.'

Buffy felt her cheeks grow hot and she had opened her mouth to bite back when Mark jolted to his feet with an 'Ah!'. Buffy spun around to see a young, pale girl, possibly a year or so younger than her staring at them with wary disinterest.

'Famke,' Mark said in a tone that made Buffy believe he was grateful for the interruption. 'Brilliant. I believe Mrs Robson has informed you of your duties?' A slight nod. 'Perfect. Buffy this is Famke, one of the Slayers. She will show you the place - where you will sleep, where you will go and where you won't. Be back at four-thirty. Famke has patrol tonight.' He strode off and Buffy looked apprehensively at the girl who stared at with something between indifference and caution. Buffy decided that the awkward silence had reigned long enough and attempted a smile.

'Hi - I-I'm Buffy,' she began. 'I'm kinda new here.'

The girl's eyes scanned her appearance, taking in her general lack of height, somewhat to Buffy's irritation, before turning on her heel and wandering off. Buffy felt her eyebrows shoot upward in involuntary amusement.

'Okaaay, we can do it that way as well.' And biting her tongue she followed the girl out of the library.


	5. The Branding

Chapter 5: The Branding

* * *

It felt surreal. 

Walking down the pearly white corridor with a stranger a couple of steps before her Buffy felt as though someone had pulled out her soul and deserted it in someone else. She felt alien; a stranger in her own body and the world was out of touch to her.

The white-tiled floors, the windows with the arching tops opening to the grey sky and the courtyard outside were unreal. The walls felt distant and yet too close as if they were tightening around her for each step she took.

The girl before her stopped dead in her track and Buffy was jerked out of her reverie, though she felt certain she was hallucinating when the girl turned to her, a broad smile stretching across her pale face.

'Hi there,' she said, extending her hand. Buffy shook it uncertainly. 'Famke is me.'

'Buffy,' her mouth replied automatically.

'So I heard. Can't stand that chap,' the girl explained, tilting her blonde head. 'Always listening or watching. Wouldn't do.'

'Mark?'

'Uh-huh. Heard you. Figured you weren't a sticker-hunter.'

'Sticker-hunter?'

'Teacher's pet,' the other explained curtly.

She was a little bit odd.

'No, I'm not exactly suck-up Buffy anymore, which kinda seems to twinge the Mark-guy.'

Famke nodded, her eyes fixing Buffy with an expectant stare. 'So what d'you wanna see?'

'What is there to see?'

'Not a whole lot,' Famke answered and Buffy smiled.

'Well,' she began briskly, 'I've already seen the library so we might as well take it from there.'

* * *

The Slayers' quarters were in the East Wing of the building and as they drew nearer the corridors became plainer, the surfaces painted to a simple white rather than the delicate, refined decorations of the Courtroom and the library. 

Only the Council's slogan which Buffy had not noticed during her first walk with Mark still crowded the passages. '_Freedom in Protection_' was written on doors, floors, window-sills and woven into carpets. Buffy despised it already.

'How many are there of you?' she asked, as they rounded a corner on their return to the library.

'Eight at the moment,' Famke replied.

'Eight slayers.' That was something she would have to adjust to. One Kendra had been more than enough. The moment the thought had formed she felt her head begin to throb painfully, and she bit down on her lower lip, using the pain to push the images that sprung to life aside. 'The undead fiends must have a hard time keeping up.' The other's pale face was expressionless. 'How long has it been for you?'

'Called four months ago.'

'Still a pretty new gig, huh?'

'I'm getting there,' Famke said evasively. 'A bit strange, though, cos all the others know each other. I'm the outsider in the group.'

Buffy felt a pang of sympathy. Did she know about that. 'Girls do that kinda stuff.'

'Yeah. Some of them have been here since they were seven.'

'You're kidding!'

'On my honour. But what about you? Sixteen, seventeen, right? Late to be called.'

Buffy fidgeted nervously with the edge of her top. 'I'm not really – or at least I wasn't...' She frowned. 'It's all a bit confusing.'

'Humour me.'

'I don't really remember, actually. Or I do, but apparently what I remember never really happened. So I'm pretty much at sea here.' She shot her companion a glance but apparently this did not strike Famke as odd; or if it did, she did not show it. Buffy got the impression she did not normally talk this much, and by the sound of her voice she was foreign too, which could not make it any easier for her.

'Have a task tonight,' Famke said unexpectedly. 'Could tag along. See the world.'

'Need back-up?' Buffy teased. They turned down yet another corridor.

'Not me,' came the dry reply. 'You have patrol tomorrow. Thought you should know your way home before charging into battle.'

Buffy pulled a face. 'Practical thinking. I'm still trying to develop that.' She paused before a door, the first she had seen, that did not bear the slogan. 'What's that?'

Famke shrugged. 'Restricted section. Only few of the Councillors are allowed to enter.'

Buffy frowned at the heavy wooden doors before her, the sense of unease stirring once more inside her. 'What's in there?'

'Don't know. Haven't checked.' Famke shifted her weight impatiently. 'You coming?'

* * *

The night was chilly; though there was no wind the icy air still climbed through her jacket to reach the skin underneath and Buffy shivered. They walked in silence; none of her five male companions had seen it as being in their best interest to chat to her, and she had gladly taken the chance to impose some sort of order on her muddled thoughts. 

She was as yet unsure of what exactly she was walking into. Famke had told her of the weekly check-up that was obligatory for the City's Pets. Mark had told her nothing. Buffy assumed she was sent to keep a check on what exactly went on - to keep the vampires submerged.

During her time in Sunnydale, be it real or not, Buffy had learnt to deal with uncertainty, to respond to it with spontaneity and precision, so the ambiguity of the details concerning her task had not shaken her. What made her uneasy was rather the doubt of what to expect from the Pets.

Angel had been the only vampire with a soul she had ever known and all evidence pointed towards him having never existed. She felt lonely, bare, exposed as she walked along the quiet streets, the streetlamps flickering to occasional grainy life before dying once more. Yet she held her head high and in her eyes only her determination and confidence burned.

The streets were abandoned; the houses resting gloomily by the sides were all shrouded in darkness and the world was eerily silent. Mark had said there were millions living in the city, yet with the lack of any kind of human activity she had experienced Buffy was seriously beginning to doubt it.

There had been life in the street earlier in the day even though most of the people she had seen were striding hurriedly past the small shops on either side, looking neither left nor right but minding their own business and seemingly expecting others to do so too.

Marred and rusty cars had been parked before the Council building but in the City they were few; the odd, battered vehicle randomly abandoned in the middle of the street or resting sullenly beside a darkened building. A part of Buffy wondered why. From her point of view she was technically in the future, yet the most of what she saw hinting at a deteriorating society rather than the opposite.

There were screams, roaring, shouting, as they stepped through the door of the old factory into the main store-room. Immediately the sweet stench of burned flesh slammed against Buffy's face and it was all she could do to keep herself from retching.

At the left wall a grate was spewing a faint golden gleam across the rough floor where three armed men were struggling to hold down a young male vampire. It was thrashing violently under their firm grasp when a hand closed around its hair, brutally jerking its head to the side so its right cheek was exposed to the sky, while the burning coals hissed as another plucked a long iron-rod from the flames. It was then it finally dawned on Buffy what she was witnessing.

She whirled on her team leader in frenzy.

'You _brand_ them? As-as though they're cattle or sheep?!'

He gave her a blank stare. 'They're animals,' he just replied. 'They don't feel it.'

On the ground the Pet cried out as the red hot branding iron made contact with the skin but as the soldiers retreated, it remained lying lifeless on the ground. Finally one of the men stepped forward and as the Council soldier dragged the vampire to its feet the glow from the fire flickered across its face, and Buffy saw in stark clarity the large, inflamed W pierced by a C that marred the entire right side of the creature's face.

She felt sick.

The face was turned and the demonic visage melted away, the golden glint in the eyes giving room for a softer, darker glow as they caught hers, and for a moment Buffy saw Angel there; the pain, the sadness, the depth of emotions she could never truly fathom piercing her to the soul.

With a determination she had thought herself incapable of evoking at that moment, Buffy forced her legs into a walk and doing her best to submerge the growing lump of ice in her stomach, she marched right up to the Brander who stared at her with unconcealed bemusement.

His surprise hardly lessened when she delivered a powerful slap to the side of his face. 'Bastards,' she spat in disgust. 'God, you are brave to dare attack him four to one, aren't you?'

The Brander's face instantly took on the same colour as his left cheek. 'Who is this?' he demanded of her team captain, pointing rudely at her.

'Vampire Slayer comma The,' Buffy snapped back. 'Look it up.'

He glowered at her.

'We're here to prevent any violent incidents,' the team captain hurriedly cut in.

'Good job,' the Brander sneered sarcastically, his palm rubbing absent-mindedly against his reddening cheek, but then he had to turn back to his task as another vampire was dragged through the door beside the fireplace. The squad leader grabbed Buffy by the shoulder.

'Do control yourself!' he snarled. 'That was not the kind of behaviour the Council expects from a Slayer and I shall have to report it to your Watcher!'

Buffy did not flinch. 'Feel free to do so.'

Glaring at her but apparently at a loss for a snappy retort, he turned away from her to focus his attention upon his squad who had followed the verbal battle with blatant curiosity.

'Block E37 had a Rogue incident half an hour ago and called for back-up. One of their guys will have to learn to write left-handed – courtesy of the Pet - so it's a destruction order. You know what the Council expects, so give it to them. Go.'

It was not before the eleventh branding of the evening that Buffy noticed that the wristbands the Pets wore were rather more than that. Being the Slayer she found herself enforced to stand by and watch as creature after creature was brought in, marked and hustled out once more. Some of them screamed and struggled, others were quiet and submissive, their heads held low. The soldiers treated them all the same.

The air was soon heavy with smoke and the stifling reek of seared flesh. Doing her best not to inhale too deeply, Buffy had debated with herself what would happen if she simply turned on her feet and walked away but had in the end come to the conclusion that that would be selfish. Just because she could not bear to watch the way the pets were treated and chose to walk away would not make the event stop. It would still go on whether she decided to watch or not. And since she had already interrupted proceedings four times when she found the soldiers became too rough with their charges, she had come to the conclusion that she would do the Pets the greatest service by staying and watching the branding proceed.

The Pets were all critically underfed, their skin abnormally pale and the shabby grey rags they wore hung loosely from their shoulders. Their general appearance coupled with the hideous burn on the right cheek ensured that nobody could ever mistake them for being human. And as Buffy stood in the corner of the smoke-filled room watching vampire after vampire being wrestled to the ground, she felt a slight pang of relief, of gladness, that Angel had never been part of this world; appreciation that he should never be reduced to something lower than an animal, be treated without respect as something without any right or voice.

She took solace in the relief that she should never see him branded and broken, with metal rings crafted through each of his wrists to form permanent, degrading handcuffs if need be. She had been too surprised to hit the Brander when she noticed the manacles that had been surgically crafted through each wrist, too shocked and appalled by what she saw to do anything but stare as the female Pet was dragged past her.

* * *

The doors clattered angrily after her as Buffy stalked into Mark's office. It was four in the morning and she had just returned from the branding to find her Watcher still awake, working ferociously with something he became exceedingly busy with brushing out of the way as she marched through the doors. 

'It's inexcusable!' she announced angrily and he blinked at her.

'What?'

'The way you treat them – it's appalling and distasteful and inhumane. They are not slaves, and they are not unthinking imbeciles!'

Ever so slowly Mark pushed himself to his feet, his fists resting on his desk as he leant forward across the table's surface. 'The brandings, I assume?'

Buffy had paused before his desk, glaring furiously at him.

'Yes! It's pathetic! You're so damn terrified of your own world, so afraid of the society you have created yourself that you no longer know who is the enemy!'

'Ah. And you do, I assume?'

'Yes, Mr Perceptive, I do. The enemy is not the half-demons with souls who would gladly fight for your cause if you gave them the choice, but the hordes of vampires roaming the city whilst the Council is too busy repressing their own.'

'Talk like that will land you before the Committee.'

'Great,' Buffy said, neither knowing nor caring what the Committee was. 'At least someone will listen.'

Mark's voice was hardly above a hissing whisper as he went on. 'You have been back _one_ day. You have had _one_ assignment. You will not make such judgments again. The schedule for the week's patrolling has been issued and you will do your turn tomorrow as planned.'

'No,' Buffy said with false brightness, 'in fact I don't -'

'You will leave at five-thirty and be back before six in the morning,' Mark pressed on, unperturbed. 'A map with the area you are expected to cover has been brought to you room. You can leave.'

'You're an ass-hole.'

He slumped back in his chair. 'Sleep well.'

Fuming with rage Buffy spun on her feet and left the room, silently vowing to strangle Mark with his stupid map first thing in the morning.

* * *

I am so sorry it took me so long to update. The chapter just did not want to work. I promise to be out quicker next time, so look for the next chapter in a couple of days. And thanks sooo much for the reviews! 


	6. Mad World

Chapter 6: Mad World

Her room was a sad, bleak affair with four plain white walls, a bed and a small table making up the furniture count. Someone had brought her belongings to the room, the pink top and the sweatpants lying neatly folded upon the bed sheets. Buffy locked the door after her before sinking down on the bed.

She was exhausted, the psychological strain of dealing with the changes and her mental uproar taking its toll on her body. And yet she was tense and alert, the slayer inside of her preventing any form of rest from reaching her soul.

Uninviting and without any kind of consolation, Buffy cared very little for her new home. Even the covers and duvet were dressed in the same hospital-white as covered the plain walls; it was very quickly making her ill with claustrophobia.

Only the single window in the back wall had potential. It was still pitch black outside but Buffy suspected that during the day she would be able to look down into the courtyard where the trees were watching their leaves fall rapidly under the influence of the approaching winter.

At least that would give her some colour to add to her black and white existence.

Buffy saw neither Famke nor any of the others slayers as she made her way to the library at noon. She had woken after five hours of sleep, and though she knew she had dreamt Buffy could not recall any of it. Breakfast in the shape of fruit, bread and juice had waited patiently on a tray outside her door as Mark had told her it would, and though Buffy had toyed with the idea of displaying her discontent by starving herself, her body had argued otherwise and her attempt at enforced anorexia lasted about five minutes.

The sound of her feet against the marble floors echoed loudly through the empty library as she stepped through the oak doors. It was quiet, the tall bookshelves seemingly watching with observant eyes as she walked among them, causing the hair at the back of her neck to stand on end. She did not know where to look but she was not too eager to ask Mark or any other Watcher for assistance either.

Famke had said that the library housed as good as every Watcher's Diary that had ever been written, and Buffy had concluded that there was no harm done in ensuring that the active Slayer in 1999 had not been a Buffy Summers under Rupert Giles. Knowing for certain that Mark was telling the truth, that she was living the truth, would perhaps make it easier for her to accept the ways of the world as it was.

She found them along the far wall, stacked into a corner. They were black and bound in leather, some seeming practically unused, whilst others looked as though the end of the world had become a rather personal experience for them.

Buffy squatted down to run her finger along them, tracing the dates backwards in time. The earliest was dated 2068; the Slayer who died to trigger the calling of Famke. Then 2063, 2062, 2059 and 2056 which had seen the death of four slayers.

Yet the dates stopped with 2006. An American girl. Faith. Buffy searched the row again but was not surprised when the result remained the same. She nearly kicked the shelf in frustration.

It told her nothing. It did not confirm Mark's words. It did not confirm her doubt. For a moment Buffy stared at the row of black books while her stomach twisted in disappointment and uncertainty. It had seemed such a good plan that it had never occurred to her that there would not be any sort of hint as to what she should do. Either they would have had the details on her or they would have had them on another. Yet they did neither.

She spun on her feet and started for the exit, feeling suddenly torn and hesitant. She could hear the rain drumming against the arched ceiling above, the dull, irregular rhythm resonating between the walls and the bookshelves until she could not hear where the sound ended and the echo began. Some of the tables she passed were now occupied by Watchers who were all busy with their own Slayer's apocalypse, and they did not warrant her a glance as she walked past.

The cobbled square before the Council had been transformed. Where it the night before had been occupied by nothing but the odd vehicle and plastic bag, it was suddenly teeming with life. Despite the lashing rain, people were hurrying to and fro between the shops whose windows and facades were decorated with flowing garments, fruit, books, meat, jewellery; voices melting into one swaying ocean of sound.

Though it was only late afternoon the sky had clouded over to a deep leaden black and thunder rolled in the distance. The rain was soaking her jacket and miniature torrents ran down the locks of hair that fell across her face. She walked past the shops, staring leniently at the displays, a desolate sense of reminiscence welling up inside her chest. Endless hours of window shopping with her mom, Willow, her dad – memories playing just out of reach and yet they felt so close as they formed a cloak of darkness that pulled tighter and tighter around her throat, feeling as though to strangle her.

Someone ran straight into her from behind and she stumbled before instinctively spinning around.

'Hey! Watch where -'

The glaring mark on the cheek burned into her and her reprimand died in her throat. The Pet seemed to sink before her eyes, its gaze dropping swiftly to a spot between its feet. Its clothing had been drenched by the rain too, clinging to its starved form so Buffy could count the ribs as they protruded from the chest.

She watched it uncertainly, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. 'Uhm – well, maybe I should look where I go as well,' she tried, not knowing whether to stare or look away.

'You're a Slayer with the Council,' it stated quietly and recognition struck Buffy as a hammer to the gut. It was the young male from the Branding.

'Sometimes,' she blurted out. The Pet slowly raised its eyes. 'Or I guess I am from your kinda view…' she trailed off. 'Why?'

'You're also different,' it said, head lowering once more.

Water was running down her back. 'Thanks?' Buffy tried hesitantly, trying to ignore the evil glares she received from passers-by.

Eyes darting anxiously, the Pet took a step closer. 'There's trouble,' it whispered confidentially. 'They will kill us all but most of us are innocent of this crime. They won't care.'

Buffy blinked in confusion. 'What's going on?'

The Pet's angst-filled face was raised so it was level with her own. 'He attacked one of _them_,' it whispered fearfully. 'They will kill him. And us as well.'

Buffy tried not to think about the river of rainwater that was currently making its way down her back. 'Who? Where - wh-when? Now?'

The Pet looked utterly perplexed. 'If you tell them, they will kill me too.'

'I won't tell,' Buffy promised, the bewilderment she felt tingeing her voice.

'At the Public gallery. We – those like me aren't allowed in there. There were guards and he knew but he didn't care.' Its voice became shrill and the pupils dilated in fear. 'I think he wants to die.'

'Probably,' Buffy concurred absent-mindedly. 'The Art Gallery?' It nodded. 'At Winston Street? I'll take care of it.'

The rain-strewn wind lashed against her face and the water blinded her as it struck her eyes. Though she followed the main street of the city, the area rapidly became less and less populated as she increased the distance between her and the Council.

So the City did not really have any cars, nor did they seem to be big on electricity but they did have a public Art Gallery. Buffy wondered whether that was pathetic or just comical in a really-not-very-amusing way.

'_I think he wants to die.'_

Following what she had seen of the Council's attitude towards the Pets, Buffy could hardly blame 'him'. Using vampires for manual labour – good idea. Hiring witches to plunk a soul into said vampires – good idea if you cannot stake them. But treating souled demons like filth, like 'things' and not living beings – not a good idea. It was just bound to end in trouble at some point or another.

Buffy was aware that she was purposely working herself into a rage, but she needed the drive, the fire to spur her. The Slayer inside of her soul had dulled to a dim glow, her disgust and antipathy to the Council's ways drowning her instincts, but she needed that now. She needed the will to win, the belief that she was fighting for the right reason.

Otherwise she could just as well go back to the Council and read up on her demon lore.

The Gallery was a flat, rectangular building like all the others only five times as large. Smooth steps led to what had once been a double door. Now it was a hole in a wall and the door was lying in the street. And in the hole in the wall lay the body of a man, his neck twisted grotesquely to the side.

Buffy jumped past him, struggling to repress the intense desire to retch at the sight that met her. Blood was pooling on the floor around the bodies that lay scattered throughout the reception hall. One had been spiked by a statue of a roman holding a spear and at his feet a radio was buzzing angrily, an anxious voice coming through the static hustle, and Buffy knew the Council was on its way. She had to find the Pet. An alarm had been set off and red light flashed along the walls, its hysteric beeping falling into rhythm with her racing heart.

Grabbing the radio in one hand and reaching for a stake with the other she crossed the hall in a run, pausing briefly as the corridors split left and right but then the distant sound of struggle and human screams reached her ears and Buffy headed down the left passage.

Blood was surging in her ears and her heart was hammering painfully against her skull. Now she knew what the team leader had meant by a 'Rogue', and to her horror she realised that he was probably right. It would have to be killed.

Clutching the stake firmly in her hand, Buffy crept closer to the spot where the corridor panned out to form what appeared to be a large circular room. The sound of struggling had died, all noise dulled to a faint ruffling sound she could not identify. Back pressed firmly against the wall Buffy tried to peer around the corner without moving her head. Thunder rolled overhead, silencing the alarm, and the lighting spluttered and died. Buffy swallowed, her fingers tightening to the verge of pain around the smooth weapon in her hand. Fortunately she was more than capable of seeing in the dark, courtesy of many years practice, and the windows along the far wall allowed tiny spectres of greying light to creep into the room.

Three fallen Council soldiers lay sprawled on the ground but Buffy looked beyond them to the dark form of the vampire a good ten paces away. Its ragged breathing was loud in the small room, and as she watched it took a staggering step backward before reeling over and collapsing against the wall.

A trembling hand reached up and closed around the tip of the arrow that protruded from its neck and yanked it free, its cry of pain swallowed by another clap of thunder. It leant its head back against the wall while the arms rested limply against floor, its shoulders sagging in exhaustion and pain. Its chest was rising and falling frantically as the hoarse breaths left its throat.

Buffy licked her lips in determination and stepped into the room.

The head whipped around to her as she stood silhouetted by the light of the storm outside, and in the split of a second it was back on its feet, moving stiffly and laboriously though with briskness that was, taking its condition into consideration, quite remarkable. It shuffled away from her, its shoulders slightly hunched and favouring its right side.

The light from one of the windows passed over its face and Buffy froze.

It felt as though someone had chucked ice down her back, and pulled her throat so tight she could not breathe. The face was pale, worn and bloodied, the body clad in the incessant grey rags and the skin was pearly white against the dark fabric, but it did not matter. The stake clattered uselessly from her hand and she felt as though she was drowning, falling, suddenly blinded and yet somehow she managed to whisper his name.

'Angel?'


	7. Face to Face, My lovely Foe

Chapter 7: Face to face, my lovely foe

At the sound of her voice a hoarse, shuddering sound, unlike anything she had heard him utter before, escaped him and he staggered backwards blindly, horrified. Buffy's head was throbbing and her legs trembled as she stepped forward.

'Angel,' she repeated softly, but he flung himself away from her.

'Stay away!' His voice broke and to Buffy's shock his hands flew to his face, moving in irregular starts and fits, before his fingers closed spasmodically around locks of his hair at either side of his face, jerking his own head downward. ''Shut up! Shut up-shut up- I didn't – it wasn't my fault!'

The last bit was screamed into the room, the shrill edge to his voice chilling Buffy to the bone. She was shaking all over, wanting to run to him but at the same time afraid, wanting to forget but also understand; and torn she simply stood watching Angel break down before her eyes.

He was so thin, so pale, and the tight-fitting shirt he wore hung baggily from his shoulders, the deep shadows cast by the faint lighting hinting at the concave stomach underneath. But the worst was his voice. His calm, slow, soothing voice that could make everything seem okay even though the world was ending no longer held the confidence, the restraint, the self-control, none of the serenity of her Angel; but only naked fear and a strange irrationality that frightened her more than anything else. His jerky movements were spontaneous and graceless, his voice falling to a low, continuous mumble that was interrupted only by the quiet sobs that jolted through him.

Buffy had found Angel but she had never felt so hopeless, so alone.

She took a step closer to his cowering form, and he immediately recoiled, flinging himself against the wall where his knees slowly gave way and he tumbled to the ground. Buffy stared at him through burning eyes as a palm was placed against the wall on either side of his head, his trembling back turned to her. She became dimly aware that she had lost feeling of her legs.

The rags he wore were too big for him, leaving his left shoulder uncovered. There was blood on his pale skin but Buffy could not see whether it was his own or the humans' he had slaughtered. Her head throbbed and she felt cold, suddenly remembering she was soaked, and yet for some reason it did not seem to matter. Her body felt too heavy for her legs and ever so slowly she sank down against the wall, watching Angel as he stirred at the opposite side of the room.

'Angel,' she whispered, only to try his name, to feel it in her mouth again, and he trembled.

The sound was quiet at first, merely a low moan at the back of his throat but then his shoulders began to shake and the chuckling grew prominent. Buffy stared at him in disbelief as he pushed himself to his feet, shaking his shoulders nonchalantly. His forehead was ridged as he turned to her and as their eyes met, the laughter turned into a manic cackling. It made Buffy's blood run cold.

'It never stops with you people, does it?' he cackled, grimacing as he pulled the remains of a bolt from his shoulder. 'Can't kill me, can't live with me.' He pulled a face as though something just occurred to him. 'Ya know, I think that must be the only thing we've got in common. No wonder it didn't work out.' He was speaking to the room now, completely oblivious to Buffy's presence.

Her eyes burned and her chest felt strangely empty, as though she had a weightless vacuum instead of a heart.

Suddenly he recoiled as though he had been struck, blinking frantically as his human face returned. 'No,' he mumbled in terror, all hints of laughter gone from his voice, 'no, I didn't -'

Buffy stared at him, feeling the tears slip silently down her cheek. 'Oh Angel, what did they do to you?'

He went rigid, his face ever so slowly turning her way. 'Buffy.' Her name was spoken so softly, so quietly, Buffy could hardly hear it. She almost smiled as relief washed over her.

'Yes,' she said, getting to her feet laboriously. 'I'm here now -'

But she was cut off as he flung his head back and an inhuman cry left him; it sounded as though someone was tearing his heart out. There was so much pain in his scream, so much fear and anger and hurt, so little of Angel.

The scream subsided little by little until he was left cowering on the ground, crying silently. Buffy licked her lips which had suddenly gone dry; it was quite a feat considering the rest of her was half-drowned. A strange hiss made her jump and spin on her feet to the radio which rested on the spot on the floor where she had dropped it. It was making spitting static noises and blinking green; Buffy's eyes travelled over the lifeless shapes of the Council soldiers and came to rest on Angel's trembling, kneeling form.

They had to go. It was in itself strange that a Squad had not arrived already to survey the situation. To kill Angel.

But you came to kill him, a snide voice at the back of her mind snickered. And yet you didn't because it was your darling _boyfriend_. What if it hadn't been? What would you have done then?

She would have taken the Pet out without a second thought, Buffy realised. She would have done what the Council, what Mark, wanted her to. She would have done her duty.

Was this a test? Some sick practice of Mark's to see if she would snap? Was this whimpering, broken creature really her Angel? – or was he simply this reality's version upon whom the one she had known had been based? If so, what was going on? He had recognised her. He had known her name but if she decided to trust Mark's claim then that did not prove anything. As far as she could discern the Slayers held some sort of local celebrity status and the area's Pets would naturally know her. It did not prove anything.

Yet, Buffy thought as she pocketed her stake, she was not going to stand by and watch while they murdered Angel.

'Angel,' she tried again. He did not move. 'Angel. We have to go.'

He was kneeling with his back to her but when he answered his voice was strangely steady, almost monotonous. 'Don't go,' he said. He got to his feet and turned to her, his anguished face burning into hers. 'Don't go again.'

'I'm not going,' Buffy said. 'We are.'

He looked at her for a while as though he was trying to read her face. Then he said quietly, ponderously as though to himself: 'Are you alive?'

That frightened her. It was not the sort of question you asked if you were perfectly sane. Buffy opened her mouth twice before finally finding her voice. 'Yes,' she whispered. 'And so are you – or well, sort of anyway - but we have to go.'

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. 'Where?'

'I don't know. Yet. But anywhere but here would be nice.' Buffy wanted to grab his hand and drag him out of the Gallery but she was under the distinct impression that he would not appreciate the gesture.

Angel took a slow step backward. His voice became cold, animalistic. 'What did you do to her?'

Buffy did not understand what he meant. 'Who?'

'She is gone – don't do this – I can't -'

She had to break him off. 'Angel, I need your help.'

His face shot upward. 'Buffy?'

'_Yes_,' she repeated insistently. 'And we really, really need to go like in this instant.'

He shook his head, once again speaking to the room. 'I don't care anymore. It doesn't matter.' His voice dropped to a whisper as his gaze fell to the floor in defeat. 'I don't care.'

Suddenly his head jerked upward and Buffy froze. She had heard it too. Footsteps. Voices.

The Council had finally arrived.

'Come on.' The door at the end of the room said 'No Admittance' and was locked. Buffy kicked it in and watched Angel follow her through. The passage was narrow and dark, and Buffy felt the strangling sensation of claustrophobia kicking in; it reminded her of a coffin. She tried to push the thought from her mind as she ran, finally reaching a door on the right. Hoping the sign above it read exit when the lighting worked she grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open. She turned to see how far back Angel was and jumped to find his face inches from her own. He glared at the metal stairway that wound its way downward from the door.

'That way?'

At the opposite end of the corridor a flickering light danced across the opposite wall and the sound of voices rose higher and nearer than before.

'Yes,' Buffy hissed and pushed him through before closing the door after them. Immediately she felt the raindrops lash against her from above and thunder rumbled once more as she found herself on top of a metal staircase; probably an emergency exit. Angel had suddenly stopped dead and Buffy saw how the staircase ended a good three metres above the rain-drenched street. Before she could say anything Angel jumped, his blurry grey form briefly suspended between the drops of water that lashed against the street before tumbling over as his feet struck the tarmac. Swearing at the architect who chose to design a staircase a floor too short, Buffy jumped, feeling the moment of detachment that came with nothing but gravity controlling the motion of her body. She connected agilely with the ground, and with knees bended slightly she rolled to her feet.

Angel was staring at her from the opposite side of the street. He stood hunched forward with his right arm hanging limply by his side, panting violently. Buffy felt a sudden urge to know just how badly he was injured; she would have to take him somewhere and get him patched up.

From the front of the building came the noise of frantic activity, shouting, screaming, flashing lights, and Buffy felt the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through her. They could not stay any longer.

Indecision seized her. Where would they go? He was bloodied and beaten and if that was not enough the hideous clothing he wore was enough to give him away. As far as she had been able to tell from her stroll along the streets the establishments that catered for Pets could be counted easily on one hand. Buffy did not know exactly how she looked herself but she was willing to bet it wasn't pretty. The only good thing was that, unlike Angel, she did not look like a butcher's apprentice.

She did not know what to say to him. He was watching her strangely, rapidly shuffling backward as she took a step nearer. Sighing in frustration and confusion, Buffy paused.

'I don't know where to go,' she said, not knowing what else to say to him. Angel had retreated so far back he was enveloped in the deep shadows cast by the opposing wall and she could not see his face.

Water ran into her eyes. 'Do – do you have a place – or something – where we can go?'

Silence. Impatience washed over her; anytime now the Council could come charging into the alley and that was not exactly a contestant for her Top Ten Situations to Come.

A brief flash of blue-white light charged along the alley and her voice was nearly drowned out by the rumble that followed. 'OK. I guess that means I'll have to come up with something.' As far as she could tell right would lead her to the main road and the front of the Gallery, but considering the occupation of the Council's squad at that end, she quickly made up her mind to take the left.

There had to be some greasy motel somewhere who would take them without question. It was simply a statistical impossibility that there wasn't; all she had to do was find it.

The tarmac was wet and smooth underneath her feet as she ran and water sprinkled her legs and ankles as she indifferently charged through the puddles that lay invisible in the utter blackness of the alley. Behind her she could hear the irregular rhythm of Angel's limping run; it was strange. She had never been able to hear him before.

Suddenly she was blinded and she only had time to register the flashlight that met her eyes, the blinding light shielding the Council soldier behind it. He was so close she could have reached out and touched the muzzle of the gun which reflected the light with a cool glint. But she didn't. She just stood and watched in numb shock as the weapon was raised until it was level with her chest. She stared as the dark-clad attacker's finger shifted to the trigger in slow-motion, whilst voices where screaming in her ears but it was as though she heard them through the dull rumble of a waterfall. She could not react to them.

Then there was a flurry of grey clothing and flashing light and it was as though time speeded up to recover what it had lost. The gun was shoved upward, the shot charging to the sky, the deafening crack that ensued nearly drowning out the animalistic roar Angel gave as he slammed his fist repeatedly into the masked face with brutal ferocity. Bones cracked.

Cold dread washed over her.

'Angel stop!'

He did not mark her but merely placed a hand on either side of the attacker's head, and before she could react, he had twisted his arms in a flash and the neck snapped with a sickening crack. Buffy felt her chest go numb as she watched the body slump lifelessly to the tarmac. Angel stood with his back to her, his body trembling with rage and she felt the slayer stir inside of her. Fighting the instinct that boiled within her Buffy hesitantly stepped forward and spun him around, not caring that he jerked his arm away from her touch. Her eyes lingered momentarily on his ridged forehead, the feral eyes, before she allowed the anger to flood her hurt and confusion.

'We have to go. _Now._'

Her gaze flickered through the surrounding darkness and she strained her hearing to the utmost to catch a hint of any other attackers, but the blackness lay empty and silent. Finally satisfied, she picked up the flash-light from its place by the dead man's limp hand be fore turning, and without looking at Angel, she broke into a run.

Unmoving, Angel stood watching as her sleek form was devoured by the darkness of the alley. Now the mind-numbing terror had subsided the pain was returning once more and his head felt strangely light.

His gaze lowered to the sunken form of the man at his feet. The clothes were being soaked by the falling rain and the face was rapidly growing pallid but he could not care. He could not feel grief. Nor sorrow. Nor guilt.

Rain-drops lashed against the open wound in his shoulder and he could smell his own diluted blood as it ran down his back and chest. It was almost funny; all that time spent wishing the ceaseless pain away and the moment it disappeared he was too afraid to notice. Too consumed by his fear for someone who was not even there to notice anything else.

A fear of hurting someone he had murdered long ago.

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A/N: Thanks so much to all you lovely readers who responded to the last chapter! And lookie, I kept my promise - a new, shining chapter out before the weekend. Lemme know what you think! :-)

Khim


	8. Strangers Like you and Me

Chapter 8: Strangers like you and me

_He watches from the shadows as she steps through the oak doors and into the empty library. He always watches. Never speaks. Never acts. _

_Just watches._

_He knows his place. He knows the line to which he can go and he has no intention of crossing it. He does not want to give them the slightest incentive for hurting him. _

_Because they would take it._

_So he watches in silence as she crosses the vast marble floor of the empty library; her blonde hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail, clad in camouflage trousers and a tight-fitting black top. She reeks of slayer. _

_He does not want to be here. He never did. Yet hewill have to play his part in their crazy pantomime. He is special. Abnormal. The Council has an interest in him and that is why he is here. _

_And as long as they want him to, he will stay and watch and be silent._

The overhead lamp went on with a spluttering hiss that made Buffy sigh in gratitude. To find an abandoned motel had been a stroke of luck she still found inconceivable and the fact that the lighting had been dead in every single room had been the only thing that had made her believe she was not dreaming. Of course they would have been fine sleeping in total darkness, not a problem, but she would like a good look at Angel in a place where the maximum amount of lighting did not peak in a pocket-sized flashlight.

Besides, the batteries in that thing had definitely joined the last chorus.

A dusty, unmade bed stood sprawled across the wooden floor along the wall to her right, facing a half-open door behind which a bathroom in green tiles was collecting dust. There was only a single window in the wall facing the entrance, consisting merely of a wobbly wooden frame since all the glass had been broken off, which was flanked at either side by brownish-green curtains that flailed madly as the door was opened.

The single lamp beside the bed finally stopped its hysterical spitting and the warm, orange glow made the room seem much more welcoming than it had done during the lamp's make-believe disco-lighting. The floorboards creaked slightly as Buffy walked to the cupboard and pulled the doors open, not in the least bit surprised to find them empty. Behind her she heard Angel slowly close the door.

Not wanting to look at him, afraid to see what she had only heard, glimpsed and felt she fled to the bathroom. She was scared. Strange as it was, Buffy felt certain she had never felt so terrified in her entire existence. The prospect of opening the door and looking at Angel as he had become froze her to the core. She did not want to look at him and see him branded. She did not want to look at him and see the Angel she knew buried beyond uncountable layers of suffering that could never be broken through.

Because looking at him, seeing the changes would make it real. Seeing him spattered with the blood of the men he had slaughtered, seeing the madness in his eyes would truly, finally kill the Angel she remembered.

She was afraid to look at him and forget what she had known.

Her fingers felt oddly stiff as she forced them to close around the doorknob. She stared at her white knuckles, the veins that pulsated underneath the skin as she strained her unresponsive fingers firmer still around the smooth copper, before finally making her decision and pushing the door open.

At first she thought the room empty and that Angel had left. Then movement at the corner of her vision caught her eye and she spun on her feet to see him standing as far back in the darkest corner as he could get. Her body went numb and she licked her lips in indecision. The curtains whispered as the night breeze tugged gently at them. Angel shivered.

'There's –' Her voice broke. She cleared her throat awkwardly. 'There's warm water. I thought…for your wounds. If you want me to have a look.'

He turned his back to her and did not answer. Buffy felt her eyes begin to sting again. She took a deep breath and pretended not to notice.

'Angel.' He stiffened. 'I have to _know_. I have to see.' The floorboards creaked as she took a step closer. His hands were trembling. 'I can't help you if I don't know what's going on, and to be honest with you, right now I don't have a frigging clue! I'm tired, confused and scared. And I need your help.'

She could have reached out and touched him but her arms remained hanging loosely by her sides. Ever so slowly he turned and the glint from the lamp crept across his face.

Buffy could not stop the sob that threatened to choke her.

He was thin and awfully so. His cheeks had sunken to the point where his perfectly chiselled cheek-bones protruded from his face and his dark eyes seemed sunken and matte. His skin was not pale; it was colourless, pearly white but without the life. And on the right cheek endless brandings had left a white scar, an intricate design of the Council's interacting initials forever burned into his skin. Buffy did not notice the tears that trailed down her cheek, nor did she plan for her hand to fly to his cheek; he flinched under her touch but she did not care, her fingers tracing the hideous marking across his skin, and slowly his gaze rose to meet hers.

'Oh Angel – I'm so sorry – so sorry…' She did not try to suppress the sobs that surged through her body as her fingers gently explored his ghostly face; the brand, the obtrusive cheekbone, the blue-toned lips. The rain had washed the blood from the wound on his forehead where a bullet had clipped the hairline and he stood silent and still as her hand glided across the cold skin. The tears stung her eyes as she gently brushed a lock of long hair from his face, before her fingers swept over his jaw-bone. Immediately he jerked his head away from her, the movement so sudden and curt Buffy instinctively yanked her hand back. He shuffled away from her, blinking frantically and with his head held low.

He had felt like Angel underneath her touch, the coolness underneath her fingers had been familiar and soothing, almost making her forget… now it was gone, she suddenly felt very much alone again. 'I-I'm sorry! Are-are you hurt? I didn't mean to –'

She trailed off.

He had raised his head and his narrowed eyes flicked across her face. 'Buffy?' he breathed, his hand starting upwards as though he had been reaching for her face but then thought the better of it.

The sleeves brushed past his wrists at the motion and Buffy froze, her eyes locked on the sharp glint of the metal, gone now as swiftly as it had come. Angel noticed and began to turn from her. She grabbed his arm.

'No. Let me see.'

Immediately he tore his arm from her grasp, and turned his head away from her. Buffy tried to ignore the tiny pang that shot through her at his rejection.

'Let me see,' she repeated insistently.

His dark eyes scrutinized hers intensely and in the end she was the one who had to look down.

'They won't go away just because you hide them,' she said quietly, 'and I will see them sooner or later.'

He gave her a strange look and something gleamed briefly in his eyes before they dimmed to the lifeless, matte brown they had been before. Lightless. Lifeless.

Defeated.

Silently, he slowly extended his hands towards her, his eyes flicking nervously from them to her face and back again.

Buffy did not gasp or cry out or move. She had known what she would find, but nothing could have prepared her for the boundless rage that boiled within her at the sight of the metal rings piercing his wrists. Dull grey in colour and about a centimetre wide, they twisted out of his pale skin like dying serpents, writhing past the faint grey outlines of the veins that started and convulsed before her eyes.

She sucked in a sharp breath of air that hissed through her clenched teeth, and Angel started at the sound. But he did not draw away.

'I'll get these off you,' she promised vehemently, feeling the heat within her chest expand. 'If I have to brand Mark with his own branding iron to find a way, I promise I will do it.'

Her voice shook almost as much as her hands.

Angel was silent, watching her warily, motionlessly, and Buffy's eyes darted about the faintly lit room, blinking back the tears that began to burn at the back of her eyes.

'Right.' It felt as though she had been torn in minuscule pieces and scattered throughout the shadows that coated the room. 'Right – we-we need to get you checked over.' Why was this so hard? Her thoughts refused to be forced back into her head, and she felt detached, light-headed, but at the same time as though her body was being dragged downward. 'There's warm water,' she repeated. It was easier than inventing something new to say. Her mouth had gone dry as she fought for something to say that would make it all better. There had to be something that would make it easier to understand.

Angel's voice was quiet, almost a whisper but it sounded loud in the stifling silence of the room and her head jerked up:

'I don't…' His eyes flickered over her face, randomly catching the faint gleam of the spluttering lamp. His mouth worked wordlessly for a brief moment. 'I don't want you to see…'

'Don't be a baby. I've seen it before, you know.' Her hand gave a strange, non-committal gesture; perhaps because her voice did not have the vivacity it used to do when she said things like that.

Of course Angel did not allow her to throw his meaning away. 'You shouldn't…' he began, his eyes narrowing with a pain that was not physical, 'you shouldn't have to see this…'

'And you shouldn't have to show me, yet here we are,' she countered, the heat gone to leave her chest hurting so much the words suddenly took on a spiteful tone that had not been intentional. Angel looked down and did not answer.

A cold tear trailed down her cheek and Buffy bit hard down upon her lower lip. 'I'll get the water,' she began, turning from him to disguise the tears in her voice. 'You just get the shirt off…'

The water was warm and light brown as it fell from the rusty pipe into the oval bath-tub. The plug was long gone but Buffy had torn the old, lice-eaten rug from the bed into trawls and stuffed the black, gaping hole in the greying white surface until the water began to pool satisfactorily. The deeper it became, the darker a shade of brown it took on but a quick inspection had satisfied her that it was merely rust, and now she sat by the edge of the tub, watching the torrent of water crash against the ever-moving surface.

She could not remember when Angel had fallen silent, or if he had at all, the noise of water upon water perhaps drowning out any noise he might have been making. She had not intended to close the door but the breeze from the open windows had slammed it shut while she fought with the soaked pieces of woollen material and she had not opened it again.

Her mind was a lot like the grimy water, she reflected grimly. Muddled to begin with, but then more and more was poured into it until it was an ever-moving whirlwind of impenetrable murkiness. The situation she now found herself in was too macabre for her to reflect on; she could do nothing but take it one second at a time, hoping something would happen that would yank her out of the foggy parallel universe she suddenly found herself in.

And Angel…

Buffy sighed, and turned the water off. She stared unseeingly for a moment as the water kept chasing itself in widening circles. Angel was another thing she had to take one second at a time.

Otherwise she would realise she had no idea what she was doing or what she was going to do, and that was not something she wanted to see happen.

The door squealed in protest as she pushed it open, and a gust of icy wind immediately struck her face, tearing at strands of hair as it loosened from her pony-tail. Her gaze travelled from the flailing curtains to Angel's still form where he had sunken back against the unmade bed. He had complied and the blood-soaked shirt was gone, leaving the upper part of his body naked down to the grey pants of the same coarse material that remained tied at the front. One arm was slung over his face, the other resting by his side; he was lying on his back and Buffy felt winded at the sight that met her. Now that the grey rag was off, his stomach caved inward to the point of absurdity, every rib and both hip-bones stood painted in stark contrast by the silhouetting lamp-light. Exhaustion was visible in every inch of his posture.

Not really wanting to startle him out of a rest she did not doubt he severely needed, Buffy took a hesitant step forward. The floorboards gave a shriek squeak, and before she could react Angel had flung himself off the bed, but still disorientated he staggered brutally against the wall before he could regain his balance or composure.

Buffy flung out her arms, her voice more shrill than she had anticipated.

'Angel! It's me – I'm sorry, it's just me…'

He blinked at her, letting out a hoarse, trembling breath.

'Oh God…' he half-whimpered, his eyes leaving her face to take in the ceiling, the room, the window… Even in the half-light thrown by the spluttering lamp she could see his eyes clench shut. 'I didn't mean to – it doesn't hurt - Oh god….'

The fit he had suffered at the gallery suddenly exploded before Buffy's eyes and she stepped closer, one hand outstretched as though he was a cowering animal. She checked herself, and forced the tense muscles to relax, forced the arm to hang down her side. 'Angel?' she tried, her voice half-caught in her tightening throat.

He shuddered at the sound of her voice, his eyes dropping to the floor between his hands, all the while murmuring, muttering, words she could not catch. It felt as though her heart had stopped beating and her mind had blanked out; every part of her watching, waiting yet fearing what would come next. _Please, God, someone…please…_

It began to burn at the back of her eyes again, as Angel's pale hand brush aimlessly over the dusty floor; his eyes remained shut as the muttering died and he fell silent.

_Not again, please not again…_

'It is okay, Angel. It is going to be okay…'

Another trembling breath, half-way between a sigh and a sob left him, but he opened his eyes and looked up at her.

'No,' he whispered, the light from the lamp reflecting in the narrow path the tears had carved down his cheek. 'No, it won't.'

For a moment she simply stared into his dark eyes because he was right, she realised. She could not know how everything was going to be. She knew nothing. So she gazed into his eyes and he stared back, unblinking. He was not breathing but remained perfectly still; the only movement was the occasional flicker of dark and light in his eyes as he saw something in hers. Her heart had come alive once more and Buffy could feel it thundering against her tightening ribcage, while the breaths were catching in her throat.

Then he blinked, and his head lowered as he pushed himself to his feet. Her legs still numb, Buffy staggered away from the open bathroom door towards the window where tiny drops of rain were torn past the splinters of broken glass and into the room by the night-wind, as though the night was crying too. Staring into the darkness, she felt the water strike her face like splinters of ice, hearing through the weeping of the wind the screech of the floorboards as Angel slowly crossed the room and the distant sound of fearful screams, rising through the darkness as shrill, terrified cries.

The wind smelled of ash and sweet, burnt flesh.

* * *

A/N:

I am so, so sorry! It has taken me months to get back to this story – believe me, it wasn't intentional.

Thanks so much to you all for your support this far, and special thanks to a2zmom, nimwen, Veronika and StephanieB for giving me a kick behind and getting me back to this!

I'm a very bad, bad author…

But please, please review and let me know someone still have a faint clue just what is going on here…


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